


Bedrooms and Big Wins

by novel_concept26



Category: Glee
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-02
Updated: 2012-06-02
Packaged: 2017-11-06 18:10:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,482
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/421760
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/novel_concept26/pseuds/novel_concept26
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Final installment, following <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/works/421758">Fashion Show</a> and <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/works/421759">Living Rooms and Batman Shirts</a>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Bedrooms and Big Wins

Title: Bedrooms and Big Wins  
Pairing: Santana Lopez/Brittany Pierce  
Rating: NC-17  
Disclaimer: Nothing owned, no profit gained.  
Spoilers: Through 3x22, technically.  
Summary: Final installment, following [Fashion Show](http://archiveofourown.org/works/421758) and [Living Rooms and Batman Shirts](http://archiveofourown.org/works/421759).

  
Watching Brittany run on a normal day is distracting, and beautiful, and insanely addicting; her hips sway, and her long legs pound against the ground like she’s going to take wing at any second, and Santana can’t resist staring openly. Especially now that she’s able to, really and truly _allowed_ , because Brittany is her girlfriend, and sexy, and amazing.

That’s on a normal day, when they’re racing together toward the pizza place a few blocks over, or when they used to do laps at practice. On a _normal_ day, Brittany is the most distracting human being on this earth.

Today, when they’ve already gone at it this many times, her skin is surging with energy, her thighs still sticky, when Brittany is totally bare-ass _naked_ , booking almost gawkily down her hallway—

It’s kind of no wonder she loses. Not by _much_ , not with Brittany’s fingers flexing tight and comfortable between her own, but still—Brittany crosses the threshold of her parents’ room first, and swivels on her heel, throwing Santana’s hand aside so she can pump both arms victoriously in the air.

Santana’s eyes are so rooted to the gentle bounce of small, firm breasts, she almost doesn’t care about the losing part.

“ _I_ win,” Brittany sing-songs, rolling her hips in a happy little circle as her feet skid on the plush carpet. “I win, and _you_ don’t!”

“This time,” Santana grunts, mouth dry as she watches Brittany’s nipples pucker in the cool air drifting down from her parents’ ceiling fan. “I still won the bet, which was, like, the daddy victory. You just got the _baby_ victory. I still get to make the big calls.”

“What-ever,” Brittany crows. Her fingers lace together behind her head, her hip popping to the side as she puffs her chest triumphantly forward. “I win. You lose. That means _I_ get to take _you_. I get to do whatever I want.”

Like that’s any kind of _loss_ , Santana wants to laugh, except her skin is still throbbing from the rough push and pull of the strap-on, and her lips feel a little bruised from how hard Brittany has been kissing all day, and _still_ , she wants more. Still, she is not satisfied, because—with Brittany—there is no such thing as ultimate satisfaction.

Especially on a glorious June day like this one, when the world is bright, and parents work until seven, and the king-sized bed with its expensive sheets is one hundred percent at their disposal.

Brittany stretches for her hand, and Santana lets herself be pulled in, breasts and hips fitting snug against Brittany’s. They sway in place in the center of the room, and Santana sighs, enjoying the calm of it all before volatile sex kicks up again. Brittany’s thumbs sweep across her cheekbones, palms cradling Santana’s face lightly, and when her mouth descends, it’s far gentler than Santana has grown used to over the past few hours. Her lips part under slanting, soft kisses, her tongue skirting the very edge of Brittany’s lip, tracing the curve of her smile before darting away again.

“Love you,” Brittany murmurs. Santana hums complacently in return, drumming her fingertips along the dip at the small of Brittany’s back, where her spine tapers down into the arch of her ass.

“But,” Brittany goes on, drifting lazy, brushing kisses against the corners of Santana’s lips, “that doesn’t change the fact that—“

Santana doesn’t have time to brace herself at all before Brittany is cheerfully swinging her around and shoving her toward the bed, cackling like a madwoman when Santana strikes the mattress and bounces.

“I _won_ ,” she announces, crawling up to join Santana, and just like that, their respite is over. Santana is laughing when Brittany mounts her, laughing like her life depends on it, because _this_ is going to be their future someday: naked, and beautiful, and rolling around in a bed made for the _gods_. This is going to be their future, and to get this preview—with the tiny bruises marked along her throat, and the sharply delicious sensation of _too much_ vibrating between her thighs—is nothing short of lucky. The luckiest she has ever been.

Brittany sits astride her stomach, hands pressed to the bedspread on either side of her face, and grins proudly down at her. Santana flexes her abs, wickedly delighted when Brittany’s expression falters ever so slightly.

“You’re so hot,” she breathes, tossing her head to brush blonde bangs out of her eyes. Santana smirks, caustic and ego-flushed, her hands folding around Brittany’s waist.

“Live and die sexy, that’s my motto.”

“Live,” Brittany advises, bending to suck at the tip of Santana’s tongue until she whines roughly in return. “Live, and fuck, and play dirty.”

“S’how we roll,” Santana half-giggles, nudging Brittany’s nose with her own and slapping heartily at her ass. The sense of Brittany on top of her has the tendency of driving her just a little bit out of her head, distracted by the flush of warmth and the slick slide of Brittany’s core just above her own swollen skin. If Brittany were to slip-slide two inches lower, to reach down between them to part Santana with skilled fingers, they could be rubbing luxuriously together right now—clit to clit, wet to wet, Brittany arching her back and pumping her hips in time to the beat in her head.

If she had things her way, that is _exactly_ what would be going down right now—but Brittany is in control for the moment, soaking up her victory with the smugly innocent little smile only Brittany knows how to wear. Temporarily bested, Santana lifts up on her elbows and waits, watching Brittany hook a finger into the collar of her sweat-dampened Batman shirt.

“If you don’t make a call soon, I’m just gonna veto your whole win,” she warns, stretching up and struggling to press her mouth against Brittany’s skin. Her girlfriend rears back, darting just out of reach, tugging harder on the t-shirt. “And when do I get to take this _stupid_ thing off, anyway?”

“Never,” Brittany cheerfully replies, her tone running in direct opposition to the lust darkening her gaze. Her pupils blown, her eyelashes long, she surveys Santana’s face the way one might inspect a four-course meal—one that is given freely, and with all the time in the world to ravish.

Santana’s stomach twists hungrily, fresh warmth surging between her legs. She squirms against the mattress, digging her fingers into the grooves just above Brittany’s hipbones.

“Want you,” she growls, bucking up when Brittany only smiles. Her fingers map against the side of her neck, thumb reaching to tilt her chin up. Santana stares resolutely back, forcing herself not to groan, or pant, or show even a hint of weakness save for the uncomfortable twitch of her pelvis as it pushes off the bed. Trying her very best not to be consumed by how _gorgeous_ Brittany’s hands are, all broad palms and strong veins and nimble fingers that dip and twist and hold firm, grasping her just at the edge, protecting her even as they lower her over.

Brittany’s hands, she thinks sometimes, are one of the top three reasons she ever fell in love in the first place. They are the hands of a goddess, hands that she has never figured out how to stop craving as they pattern across her body, hefting her breasts, tracing her ribs, curling between her legs—

Slowly, still holding Santana down with her own hips and the warm press of those fingers, Brittany skids her right hand down her body, along the dark valley between her breasts, skimming the trail of muscle cutting her stomach, pausing with a flutter beneath her bellybutton. Santana watches, jaw tightening, willing herself to remain still even when Brittany moves one fingertip pointedly lower, tickling between swollen lips as her eyes close.

She makes a rough little noise in the back of her throat, raising her hips just enough to dip that finger into her entrance, and Santana swallows. Waiting. Patience isn’t her thing, has _never_ been her thing, but when a beautiful girl is sitting naked on top of you, stroking herself smoothly, canting her hips atop your bare stomach—you make do.

Even if you would much prefer to flip that stunning girl onto her back and finger-fuck her until her screams go raw.

She watches Brittany touch herself, hips rolling gently to meet her finger as it presses in and slides back out again, glistening. Blue eyes pinning dark, Brittany raises that hand to her own lips and draws the tip of her finger in, tongue dancing out to taste. The low noise she makes, the hungry little _mm_ , sends the hair on Santana’s arms jolting to attention, goosebumps prickling up and down soft skin as she watches Brittany inhale herself, tongue sweeping this way and that past parted lips, coiling around the tip of her finger and suckling as she grinds against Santana’s quivering stomach.

“ _Fuck_ ,” she hisses, twisting the bedsheets around both hands, her hips jerking from the mattress. “ _Fuck_ , Britt—“

Lazy blue eyes flutter shut as Brittany licks herself clean, then drift open again. She smiles. “You wanna taste?”

Santana is positive that _not_ tasting will flat-out, damn-sure _kill_ her; she nods erratically, sucking in a hopeful breath when Brittany slides herself—wet and flushed and _ready_ —up her body another few inches. She’s got the shirt pushed up to Santana’s breasts now, one tight nipple peeking out from underneath where her bra cup has found itself messed beyond hope, and when she rolls her hips again, leaving a thin trail of arousal in her wake, Santana chokes on a groan.

She wants Brittany wrapped around her, wants to feel the weight of Brittany’s powerful thighs framing her head, the dark, sticky warmth of Brittany’s want coating her lips. She wants Brittany to ride her face, thrusting mercilessly until oxygen becomes very much a thing of the past, and she wants it to a degree she’s never wanted anything in her life. The way a starving man would think of a steak—that’s Brittany in this moment. Something to be devoured, messily, hungrily, with everything she’s got.

“Come up here,” she beckons, jerking her head uncomfortably, and Brittany’s sly smile grows. Brittany’s knees shuffle against the mattress, her legs bent as she makes her way over Santana’s shoulders, settling on either side of her head carefully.

“Like this?” she teases, but breathlessly, like she’s already imagining the heady push of Santana’s tongue into her body. Her hips twist rhythmlessly above Santana’s face, swaying from side to side as her eyes follow desperately.

“Right there, baby,” Santana mumbles, straining her neck up from the bed and pressing a lingering kiss to Brittany’s silky inner thigh. Above her, Brittany gives a little jolt, wrapping her hands around the headboard and shifting until she’s nearly there, nearly touching down against parted lips.

“ _Please_ ,” she pants, and Brittany lowers herself that last half an inch, right into Santana’s waiting mouth. She hears a sharp inhalation, followed by a high whine, and _fuck_ , Brittany must be so sensitive after everything they’ve done this afternoon. Sensitive and damp, her clit reddened and harsh as Santana blows a hot breath across her skin, then wraps her lips around it and sucks lightly; she feels Brittany soak through, painting her lips and chin, and moans appreciatively at the sharp, bitter tang on her tongue.

Brittany is rocking against her already, so worked over from before that every minstration Santana’s mouth has to offer seems magnified ten times over again. Santana’s tongue, licking relentlessly—soft, but steady, as it blankets Brittany’s clit from all angles, as it swipes between her lips and dips briefly to her opening—and Santana’s lips, kissing in long, open strokes. Santana, pulling flushed, smooth folds into her mouth and suckling gently, embracing each inch of Brittany in turn. Santana, with her mouth insistent and her tongue wild.

Brittany’s hips jolt and squirm, her fingers white around the headboard, and Santana follows each wild motion as best she can. Reaching up, she cradles Brittany’s ass in both hands, pulling her closer, not even caring that her nose is pressed suffocatingly tight to musky skin, that her lungs burn for air. She holds Brittany against her, licking in hot, slow stripes as Brittany cries out above her, babbling mindless direction.

“There, _there_ , _fuck_ , don’t stop, don’t you dare—“

Santana grins, closing her eyes and swirling the tip of her tongue around Brittany’s entrance. Her world is brimming with the warm tang of Brittany dripping across her lips, the clench of Brittany as she struggles to take Santana in, desperate to accept what Santana isn’t yet giving. Everything is Brittany now—the ragged whine of her breath, the way the fingers of one hand close around Santana’s hair, forcing her nearer, the scent of her in Santana’s nose when she turns her head a fraction of an inch and scrapes blunt teeth across the edge of her clit.

Everything is Brittany, and beautiful, and incredible, and when Santana slides her tongue in, relishing the way Brittany’s muscles pull and expand around her, clutching at her, the only thing she can hear is Brittany’s grunt, Brittany groaning, “ _Fuck yes_ , right there, fuck me just like that, don’t leave, don’t go—“

She wouldn’t, _couldn’t_ go anywhere—not now, not with Brittany’s hips riding her this way, arching up and slamming down again on her tongue, mad for _deeper_ and _harder_ and _faster_. She thrusts in and smooths back out again, gripping Brittany’s skin, holding her firm against her tongue as she strokes, and licks, and moans right into the clenching core of Brittany.

 _Tight_ , she wants to gasp, _tight and fuck,_ baby, _fuck_ —but the words vanish into sticky skin and velvet want. Brittany is left to speak for them both, crying, “ _More, give me—give it—give—_ “

It won’t take long for her to come undone like this, not with the thick persistence of Santana’s tongue urging up into her, not with the scramble of rough nails against her scalp and the grind of the bedframe as it thuds against the wall. Brittany’s pelvis rises and falls sharply, angling to pull Santana in deeper, and when she glides out, giving a flat, rough lick from slit to the curve of Brittany’s clit, that’s _that_ —Brittany constricts around nothing at all, her nerves pulsing upon Santana’s tongue as she makes a high, thin noise that Santana is ninety percent sure was meant to be her name.

Her thighs shudder, and she drops, just barely possessing enough conscious thought to jerk to the side instead of landing squarely on Santana’s face. She bows, knees tight against the mattress, forehead pressed to the wall, and grips the headboard to keep from tipping right off the bed. Santana brushes the back of her hand across her lips and smirks.

“You taste fucking _awesome_.”

Brittany makes another noise, hoarsely, and fumbles for Santana’s face with one shaking hand. Santana leans into it obediently, tongue thrusting obscenely deep to wrestle with Brittany’s until she repeats the noise in a dark, satisfied sort of way. She traces the shape of Brittany’s teeth, nudges at the roof of Brittany’s mouth, coils her tongue and flashes it against Brittany’s until she’s _sure_ Brittany can taste herself—that Brittany can’t get away from the flavor that is so definitively _her_ , the flavor Santana sometimes tastes in her dreams.

“I fucking love the way you feel in my mouth,” she insists, licking across Brittany’s lips one final time, her hands cupping Brittany’s cheeks comfortably. “I fucking love you.”

“You love fucking me, too,” Brittany says wisely, shuddering when Santana shifts and bites down on the side of her throat, drawing the skin tight until it blossoms with color. “You— _ungh_ — _San_ —“

Santana leans back, satisfied. “My win, my rules. And I want you marked.”

“I’m _already_ marked,” Brittany breathes, not quite exasperated enough to make her feel guilty about it. “All over. You’re very bitey today.”

Quirking one eyebrow, Santana slides the pads of her fingers along her own neck, bumping over each raised blemish Brittany has bestowed since their shopping expedition. “I owed you.”

Brittany laughs, tilting herself back against the abundance of pillows and sinking into them. She looks thoroughly and endlessly fucked, her hair sticking up in all directions, her cheeks pink and happy. Her lips are as swollen as the sensitive skin between her legs, coated in Santana’s saliva and the promises etched by her tongue.

“Productive afternoon, all in all,” she says, sliding to the edge of the mattress and stretching until her spine pops in three places. “Fucking _fantastic_ afternoon.”

“But now we’re all gross,” Brittany pouts, slinging a hand across the bed to fold over Santana’s thigh. She bites her lip, peering sideways through her eyelashes.

“I can think of a room that might fix that.”

Brittany makes a face like Christmas, struggling to sit up. “You might have to carry me. I think my legs forgot why they exist.”

Santana snorts, wrapping an arm around her waist and guiding her to a standing position. “You won’t have to go far. Have I ever mentioned that the Rich Bitch Parental Units have their very own, totally _awesome_ master bathroom?”

 _Awesome_ actually puts it kind of mildly; the bathroom in her parents’ room is _massive_ , stretching almost the span of Santana’s own bedroom. There are elegant mirrors, and glorious marble sinks, and most importantly—

“This shower is like—like _Narnia_ ,” Brittany blurts, stumbling through the door and immediately playing with the faucet. Santana leans against the wall, appreciating the droplets that skid off Brittany’s every curve, winding around slim breasts and graceful hips before trickling down endless alabaster legs.

“Mmmhmm. I’ve wanted to have sex in this thing for, like, _years_. We could probably do it for three hours before the hot water ran out.”

Brittany flicks a coy glance over her shoulder, stretching up on her toes to grasp a bottle of shampoo. “So are you planning on getting in, or…?”

Santana smirks, fingering the edge of her shirt. “Depends. Am I allowed to take this nerdy-ass thing off now, or do I have to get all soggy and uncomfortable while your boobs are on sexy, sexy parade?”

Mouth curling in thought, Brittany squeezes a dallop of soap between her palms and rubs vigoriously. “You can take it off,” she says at last, dragging her fingers through the tangles in her hair until they reluctantly smooth out, “ _but_ you have to promise to put it back on after.”

“It smells all sweaty,” Santana grumbles, already jerking the clothing in question up over her head. Brittany’s eyes zoom instantly to her breasts, still bound uncomfortably in an unbalanced bra.

“It smells like _sex_ ,” she corrects. “Which is one of my favorite things about it. Sex smells a whole lot better than, like, Tide.”

Reaching around, Santana pops the clasp on her bra and lets it slither down her arms, shaking her head in amusement. Brittany stretches her arms out, hair still thick with lather, and eases her into the shower with a smile.

“The water’s great,” she says by way of greeting, curling an arm around Santana’s middle and pressing against her ass. Just like that, Santana thinks, turning her face into the spray, they’ve come full-circle: Brittany holding her, hips lightly nudging against her backside, forever reminding her, _I’m here. I want you. I’m yours._

Like she could ever forget.

The bite of Brittany is still fresh on her tongue when she turns her head and accepts a long kiss, Brittany’s breasts slippery against her back. Even here, under harsh hot water, with the tang of apples radiating off of Brittany’s hair, she can smell them: the way Brittany twists on her tongue, the way her own hips hunt after Brittany’s roving fingertips, the charge of Brittany’s kiss as it sinks in deep and permeates her whole day. They _are_ sex so much of the time that it sometimes gets hard to imagine being anything else; sex is _golden_ , where she and Brittany are concerned.

But sex, for all its worth, _is_ —she grudgingly admits—better with feelings. Because they’ve done this before: fucked in a shower stall, with Brittany’s thigh angling up between her legs, Brittany’s teeth scraping across her collarbone, Brittany coming hard and shudderingly around her fingers. They’ve done it more times than she can count, but when Brittany loves her—when Brittany’s hands are as adoring as they are insistent, when Brittany’s lips trail the shell of her ear, down behind her shoulder, her tongue warm as soft kitten licks mingle with blazing water—it’s different. Different, because she knows it means something, no matter how hot it is, no matter how many times it gets her off. It means Brittany is here because she _wants_ to be, because there is nowhere else she would rather go than here, in the Lopez Master Bathroom, with her hands skimming Santana’s droplet-patterned skin.

Brittany’s hips hike against her ass, Brittany’s thigh pushing between her legs from behind, and Santana bends with the pressure of it. Accepting the weight of Brittany’s hands as they cup her breasts, tweaking her nipples lightly, she leans forward until she can feel Brittany against her parted skin, until the buzzing in her head picks up all over again.

Brittany bends her against the shower wall, hands sliding down Santana’s arms to guide both palms flat against the blue tile. Her fingertips catch on Santana’s wrists, on the thin ghost of arteries beneath heated skin, and trickle back up again until Santana is standing on her own, legs spread, feet planted, knees trembling with expectation.

She feels Brittany’s hands close around her hips, pulling her back to meet the juncture of Brittany’s groin, and listens for the telltale sigh as her ass brushes clit. Brittany pulls her back and forth, grinding against her, building friction with heightening moans under the water, and Santana closes her eyes and falls into it. Brittany is smooth, and curved, and shuddering as her palms trace down the sides of Santana’s thighs, skirting around to press firmly to the place just above her bent knees.

Brittany exhales right into her ear, breasts pillowed against the length of her back, and whispers, “Gonna make you feel good.”

She groans, fingers curling into limp fists against the tile. “Always do,” she manages, nearly buckling when Brittany’s left hand lifts to cup her gently. She rolls Santana’s clit between two fingers, kissing her cheek softly when Santana tilts her head searchingly.

“So good,” Brittany sighs, even as her right hand palms Santana’s ass, gives a light pinch, and then pushes between her legs. Two fingers at her entrance, she pushes in and out, and Santana—tight and throbbing from taking the strap-on—whimpers.

“So beautiful,” Brittany goes on, angling to kiss her other cheek, her hips pushing in time with her arm until Santana catches her rhythm and begins to rock with her. “So tight, and so fucking beautiful. I love being with you. I’ve never loved anyone like I love you.”

She makes an unbidden little noise, lost under the thunderous beat of the shower, and Brittany plants a lingering, open kiss against the base of her neck. Brittany’s tongue sketches thin marks into her skin, and Brittany’s fingers firmly stretch her open, prompt her to clutch at them, to pulse and clench with every incoming thrust. Brittany’s left thumb flicks at her clit until she feels as though her head will explode, until madness seems to sink into her bones, and still, those fingers—the glorious hands that she fell in love with so long ago, when Brittany would push her hair back from her face, and apply well-meaning band-aids, and rub suntan lotion into all the hard-to-reach spots—stroke at her insides, working her up and up and up.

She pants, forehead jammed up against cool tile, angling her hips back and whining Brittany’s name, begging for more until Brittany introduces a third finger and twists, jerking her knees out from under her. She shatters around Brittany’s hand, fists slipping from the wall as she dips backward against Brittany’s soaked body. Brittany, who makes a sound like weary satisfaction against her hair, kissing the top of her head as she draws her fingers out and runs them carefully under the spray like showering is the only thing on her mind.

Santana rolls her head against a strong shoulder and smiles blearily. “Am I clean?”

“Never,” Brittany laughs, bending over her shoulder to clumsily kiss her again. The water cascades over them both, leaping into Santana’s eyes, clogging her nostrils, making her dizzy, and still, Brittany kisses her with flashing tongue and soft lips. Brittany kisses her, arms reassuring around her waist, with soap suds still clinging to the ends of her hair, and Santana thinks she could wear a silly Batman shirt for the rest of her life, if Brittany asked. She thinks she could do _anything_ , if Brittany wanted it, because even though she wins sometimes—even though bets go her way, and Brittany can’t keep her hands off to save her life, and races only stall out because she’s too busy staring—the winning part isn’t what counts. It’s the _having Brittany_ part, the part where Brittany is there to lead her into a dressing room, or to fuck her on the living room couch, or to rut bonelessly against her mouth— _that’s_ the part she loves. _That's_ the biggest win of all.

Only with Brittany, could she have a sex marathon of this caliber in her empty house.

Only with Brittany, could she mar the couch, _and_ the kitchen counter, _and_ her parents’ _off-limits-always-Santana_ room with giggles and groans.

Only with Brittany, could she stand in a steam-soaked shower the size of Texas, knowing a friggin’ Batman shirt awaits her on the other side.

She kisses Brittany, fingers sliding against slippery skin, and feels confident that this will be her June, her summer, her _life_. And maybe it’s going to take some time to get perfect, what with Brittany failing high school and everything, and with Santana not having the first _clue_ what she’s doing with her life after legally-mandated education—

But, _damn_ , there’s a lot of time for sex between _figuring-all-of-that-out_ and now.

A lot of very hot, jaw-droppingly _incredible_ sex.

She makes a note, as her mouth opens and Brittany’s thigh sneaks between her tense, exhausted legs, to ask Brittany if she’d like to go shopping again tomorrow.  



End file.
